


The Fawn

by SylviaWolfe



Series: The Fawn Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Murder, Mystery, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-05-25 11:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14976350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaWolfe/pseuds/SylviaWolfe
Summary: Theo Jefferson is an artist. A sketch artist, to be precise. She sees the world in every color and shape imaginable. But you might know her under a different name. Theo Holmes.





	1. Gin and Tonic

"I'm home." 

No one answered, making the house feel large, despite it only being 86 square feet. I picked my way around the empty beer bottles, trying not to hit any. Putting the groceries into the dying fridge, I used the empty bags to carry all the old food and bottles to the trash, knowing that this would be repeated in a few days. The clock on the wall told me I had ten minutes until the next shift. Quickly, I peered into Vienna's room, my nose revolting at the smell of beer that still lingered. I opened the window letting the cool air of November slip in. 

It only took two minutes for me to change and run out the door. The bus was running late that night and I knew that I would be making a close call. The neon sign of Fred's Pub was flickering out. I made a note to ask Fred if I could fix that. Inside, the pub reflected the sign, only four customers here. I ran to the back and hung up my coat. Checking the time, I realized how late I really was. 

"Hey Theo, didn't think you would be coming." Smokey, one of the regulars, smiled at me from a front of the bar. The Knightly twins were also here, playing cards as usual. This time, it looked like Jim was winning. I began to clean up the mess that lay behind the counter. 

"I know, the bus with running late today. You find anything new?"

He pulled out a clipping of the Daily Telegraph and slid it across, a few circled in red. "Not much, especially for your age."

I sighed scanning the list. "These are too far away. I need something closer." Taking out a drawing, I slid it over to Smokey. He smiled, a portrait of himself staring back at him. 

"Thank you."

Two more people walked in and sat, making the total count in the bar six, including me. 

"Hey Señor Gonzales. You look like you need a Bloody Mary."

The first man, very disheveled, smiled back and nodded. "Oh sin duda. Margarita just kicked me out again." Señor Gonzales usually slipped into spanish phrases when tired.

The pub gave a sigh, knowing that this happened at least twice a week. Everyone here was a regular customer, someone who came every day, no matter what the weather looked like. Except for one person. 

The other man was out of place, with a clean cut suit and pocket handkerchief. He had an umbrella which he laid on a separate chair. He looked tired, but not enough for a cocktail. His haircut and attire stated that he probably just came back from a bad day in the government. Instead, I gave him gin and tonic, a surprised look appearing on his face. He picked it up gently and twirled the drink around in the glass, a soft swoosh emitting from it.

"So," Smokey stated, holding the glass out for me fill it up and sliding the drawing to the side, "How're the other jobs going?"

I gave him some regular chardonnay and smiled. "Okay, I guess. Daryl's just went bankrupt, so that's gone. That only leaves me with two."

Señor Gonzales looked up, startled at the new fact. "Bankrupt? Eso es demasiado malo." 

Smokey patted the man on the back. "Well, at least we know which job she likes the best."

Mr. Proper, the name I had given the new guy, was staring at me intently, like I was an exhibit at the London museum. Suddenly the door banged open and Frank Miller came stumbling in, pretty much drunk. Smokey stood and heaved him onto the stool next to him. I ran, grabbed a large beer glass and filled it up with water, placing it before the young guy. He mumbled something about his work before slurping down the entire thing in one gulp. He then proceeded to chug the cup of black coffee I had set down in front of him. Sighing, he looked around shameful, a pitiful face staring up at me.

"I'm really sorry about this Theo, truly. My work-" 

I cut him off there, knowing that he was going to have some sappy excuse about his boss.

"Ça va aller. Stay here until you sober up a bit more. Drinks are on the house."

Frank laughed and his head fell onto the table, the man out like a light. Señor Gonzales lifted the skinny figure out of his seat and laid him down in a booth. The three of us spent the time discussing football scores until the light of a sunrise was coming in. 

"Well. I think that's the end of the day," Smokey said, yawing and I knew he was right. Everyone slowly got up, shrugging on coats and hats. 

"You sure you got Frank covered," Smokey asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, it's fine." 

"Theo," he stated, glancing up at me with sad eyes, "Get some rest. You understand?

"Okay. I can't promise anything though."


	2. Mr. Proper

When the building cleared, there was only Mr. Proper, Frank and me. I cleaned up and started to shut down everything. The man was staring at his empty glass, but he never had asked it to be refilled.

"Um, excuse me," I timidly prodded, the man looking up, startled, "I hate to say it, but we're closing."

"Oh, of course." he glanced over at the lifeless body of Frank and gave me a little head nod.

"Would you like me to help you. I'll carry him and you can lead the way."

"Um, sure," I replied, quickly switching off the lights and locking the door behind us. We walked out to the parking lot and we sat at the bus stop. Frank groaned a little and sat up slowly.

"Hello sleeping beauty," I smirked at him. He glared and put his head into his hands, moaning a little. The bus pulled up and we all got on. Mr. Proper was staring at me again and this time I locked eyes. He looked so familiar, yet it was like meeting an old relative who you haven't seen in ages.

"I never introduced myself," he said, holding out one hand which I took, "You can call me Mr. H."

"Theo, even though you probably already know that."

"Theo. That's something new. What does it stand for, Theodosia?"

"No, it's quite silly actually. It stands for Thucydides. The Greek mathematician."

Mr. H's eyes narrowed and then widened in surprise. He was about to ask something else when we reached the stop. Frank stumbled out, hesitating in front of the large apartment building, all of it's lights blinding. His boss happened to be his sympathetic ex who had gladly given him a job, despite the fact that he had fallen out of rehab. Facing the wrath of that woman wasn't going to be easy. He turned to look back and I waved, urging him on. The bus pulled away and it was just me and Mr. H.

"You know," I said, turning to him, "I really feel like I know you. Did you ever come to Fred's before?"

The man shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "No, never. To be honest, I don't know why I even went there in the first place."

I stood, getting ready to leave, but the man took my arm and stood as well.

"You getting of as well?"

"You could say that."

I gave a little nod and wiggled out of his grasp. Hopping off, I could hear him calling behind me, but didn't wait and ran all the way to the house.

"Vienna," I shouted, almost tripping over the new cans that littered the floor. Looks like someone went to the store today. At this point, my brain couldn't handle how much money went down the drain. I raced to throw all of the junk out, as I could hear footsteps from outside.

"What, is there a fire?" Vienna staggered out of her room, wrapping a robe around her, obviously trying to get over a hangover.

The door banged open, Mr. H standing there in shock.

"Mycroft?"

"Vienna?"

I stood stock still, unsure of this unusual greeting that was being exchanged between the two grownups. The bag of recyclables lay limp in my arms, so I set it back down on the ground.

"What is going on?"

Vienna collapsed onto the sofa, half from shock and half from the hangover, and motioned for me to sit next to her. Her breath smelled like beer and honey.

"Sweetheart, I know this might not be easy for you, but you need to just take it in."

Mycroft cautiously stood next to me, hovering over like a hawk.

"I presume that I should reintroduce myself. I'm Mycroft Holmes, your father."

I just stared, unsure of what to say. What was I supposed to do? Was my mom an alcoholic when he met her? Is that why he left? Thoughts were spinning, so the only thing I did was stand and slap him across the face.

"Thucydides Jefferson" Vienna cried, "Why did you do that?"

Mycroft just sighed and I ran to my room. Crashing onto the mattress, I almost started to cry in confusion. Murmurs crept through the half open door, so I could hear snippets of the conversation.

"You're not capable of the upkeep....please."

"No, she's mine....you would never take care of her...send her away."

"Vienna, it's better this way....I don't want to call the police."

At this, there was a slam and I could tell that Vienna had gone into her room. Slowly opening my door, my line of vision allowing me to see Mycroft, my Father, sitting at our kitchen table, head in hands. I came out and sat across from him, the face looking up.

"You know," he muttered, rubbing his forehead, "You look like Vienna. That's why I was staring at you today."

"Yeah, wasn't wondering."

He got up and started to walk out, but stopped in the doorway and turned. Vienna came out of her room, tear marks streaming down her face. They stared at each other for awhile until she pushed me towards him gently.

"Go, he's right."

"Woah, hold on. Don't I have a say in this?"

"No. I can't take care of you right now and you shouldn't be working as much as you do."

My mouth fell open. "You knew about all those jobs?"

She looked surprised that I would ask that question. "Of course. How else did all those bills get paid and all that food pop up in the fridge."

She nudged me again to the door, Mycroft already outside next to a cab.

"I'm going to miss you, Kid."

"Definitely."

"I'll send your stuff."

"Okay."

We stared longingly at one another, both envisioning what might've happened if she wasn't a mess. I got into the cab, Mycroft following. We drove off and I looked back until I couldn't see her anymore.

*******************************

The ride was short and silent, neither one of us mouthing a word. When we arrived at his house, I looked up in awe.

"Well, this is Pence Hall. It's a short distance away from Fred's."

It got even better when we walked in a spiral staircase was in the middle and a large chandelier was hanging from the ceiling.

"Jeez, what job do you have?"

He smirked and led me around, not responding.

"Kitchen, living room, gym, and your room is up here." He opened the double doors to reveal a huge bedroom that could've easily been the size of half my house.

"I'll let you get settled. Come down to the kitchen when you're ready."

Looking around the room, I found that just because it was big, didn't mean it have a lot of stuff. Besides the bed, wardrobe and desk, the room lacked furniture. I didn't have anything to give, so it remained that way. My wardrobe was also very empty, only a few hangars idly waiting to be used. The bathroom was very large, the shower doors frosted glass with gold handles. Walking back downstairs, I saw that there was another door leading off to who-knows-where. Sounds of glasses clinking made its way underneath the door, so I assumed we were connected to a bar.

"So," I ask, strolling into the kitchen, Mycroft already sitting down at the table, "What is your job exactly?"

"I work for the British government. Am the British government. Sometimes. It's complicated. Very complicated."

"Um. Okay. Enlighten me on what it is you do."

"I'm the mind. Whenever there's a problem, they come to me. My brother - your uncle - sometimes helps, but he drives me...insane."

"Oh. Am I going to have to meet him?"

He laughed and handed me a bowl of vanilla ice cream.

"It's two in the morning."

"So?"

I ate it, not giving a second thought.

"Don't you have some sort of super knowledge," I ask tentatively, faintly remembering an article Smokey had shown me about a Holmes guy. Which one, I now wasn't sure.

"Yes," he replied smugly, " I have an extraordinary memory and an uncanny observation skills."

Hearing this, I thought on whether or not I inherited these traits, but considering some past actions, I could tell that the gene had passed over me.

"I'm good at drawing, " I replied, not knowing what else to say.

Mycroft glanced at me and cleared his throat. He grabbed his laptop, typed something in the search engine, and flipped it around to face me. On the screen, there was a detailed picture of the London bridge. Before I had time to ask what he was doing, he closed the lid and stared directly at me.

"What do you remember from the picture?"

I paused. "Seriously."

"Yes, I am serious. Think."

I just sighed and closed my eyes.

"Well, there were thirty people in total and thirty-six cars, the sun was behind the person taking the picture, and from his position, it would be around twelve in the afternoon, accounting for all the people. The bridge looked worn out, which accounts for the past ten years and there were water puddles and branches and leaves on the top, but it was sunny out, which meant that it was the day after a thunderstorm. The leaves were brown which showed that it was taken near the late of October. The way the shot was taken showed that it was a birds eye view, which meant that it was a professional photographer. Also because of the window glare from the helicopter, you could slightly see the outline of a large left hand with a ring, showing it was a man who was married. That's all I got."

Opening them, I see Mycroft stare at me in shock.

"Well, look at that. A photographic memory is something very rare. It could use a bit of work, but soon you could be perfect. I saw the drawing you did of your friend at the bar. A great artist like that has wonderful observation skills." He smiled again and started to eat some of my ice cream. I hoped that he was right. I wanted a new life and this could be the way to begin.


	3. 2 Years Later

"He's gonna hate this."

"I don't really care. You're his niece."

Father hung up, leaving me to face the wrath of my Uncle. Walking into Bart's Lab, I see Sherlock isn't alone. Mike, Molly and another gentleman whom I didn't know were with him. Without looking up, Sherlock tensed and growled.

"Get out."

"No," I responded immediately, "Hello Molly, Mike."

They both nodded in a greeting and I turned to other man, ignoring the look Sherlock was giving me. He had a cane in one hand, leaning against.

"I don't think we've met," I said, holding my hand out, "Theo Holmes."

He shook and smiled. "Doctor John Watson."

"Thucydides Holmes to be exact," Sherlock piped up, knowing I hated my full name. He refuses to use my nickname, probably just to spite me. Luckily though, he had finally stopped the death glare. Turning to me, he sighed.

"I'm presuming no excuse will suffice for today?"

"Nope. Unless you want me to call him while he's in the middle of-"

"I get it. I'm stuck with your insufferably small brain."

He turned back around to his microscope and asked, "How do you feel about the violin?"

John looks at me and I shake my head. He finally realizes that Sherlock was talking to him.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes moving right past me.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Thucydides covers walls with her drawings, so don't expect any paintings. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John still looked puzzled. "Who said anything about flatmates?"

Sherlock gave his weird grin and put on his long coat and threw on his scarf. I moved closer to the door, trying to avoid all of the fancy equipment.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan," John asked, trying to figure my uncles brain out.

Sherlock ignored his question and continued with his statement. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it after all the....finances." He glanced over at me and smirked

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary. Thucydides, are you coming? I can't wait all day."

I rolled my eyes and huffed.

"I'm following."

John glanced between both of us and his confused expression returned. "Is that it?"

Sherlock stopped and brushed by me, strolling back to John.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" 

"Problem?"

John had a disbelieving expression on his face and I couldn't blame him. Sherlock could be difficult and trying to make him answer a question is even harder than plain conversation. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." 

Sherlock moved closer to John and I knew that an explanation was in store. Hopefully it wouldn't be very long because I was starting to get peckish.

A quick breath and he was off. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." 

John fidgeted awkwardly and Sherlock smiled smugly. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

"Sherlock," I half-yell at him, "I'm tired and hungry, so can you show off your brilliance later?"

He rolled his eyes, but followed me to the door. Pushing me through, he turned and and leaned over the side.  
"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."

I was waiting for him at the end of the hall, trying very hard not to groan when he told me that we had to wait for food.

"You'll be fine. I don't eat food. Why you people need food, I don't understand."

"Sherlock, I don't care what your eating habits are. But mine are set in stone and I-am-hungry."

He reluctantly agreed and we headed to lunch. Coming back to the flat I helped him move in, Sherlock oblivious to the my comments that John might not want to live here.

"Well, since you're going to be staying here for who knows how long, why don't you take 221C?" Sherlock's back was to me and he pointed down the stairwell. I went to check the room and it was small, mold in the corners.

"Sherlock," I scolded him, hopping back up the stairs, "That thing has mold and smells horrible. I can't live there."

He smirked and gave a fake sigh.

"You only stay for a week or so. Besides, if it doesn't work, I could call Mycr-"

Kicking him in the shin, I glared and examined the other rooms. The bedroom was small and I knew they could be easily filled with Sherlock's stuff. The landlady came in and gave me a friendly smile.

"You must be Thucydides. I'm, Mrs. Hudson. Pleasure to meet you."

"You can call me Theo," I replied, shaking her hand, "Are there any other bedrooms that happen to be available?"

"Oh, yes dear, there's one upstairs."

I smiled, knowing Sherlock didn't have an excuse this time. We settled in and I happened to fall asleep on the couch, trying to ignore Sherlock's late night behavior, which included signing and more violin playing. Thank Elizabeth that John might become Sherlock's new friend.


	4. The Case

Around 5 o'clock in the morning, Sherlock woke me up and dragged me to the mortuary. For the entire day, he never mentioned once about meeting John that evening. I didn't bring it up, knowing that he would either ignore me or say some snarky comment.

Two years had gone by since Mycroft plucked me from Vienna and started my new life. It took around a week for everyone who Mycroft knows, which basically means the entire British government, to hear about me. I was bombarded with letters and questions, people desperate to to know the mystery kid of a Holmes brother. After six months, Father, Vienna and I met up to discuss legal issues. The rehab Vienna was going to helped, but they weren't sure if she was ready for me. There was a lot of arguing those few nights.

The trial came and went, Mycroft getting full custody. I wasn't sure if I liked that bit, considering I still didn't know him. It didn't help his case that when things got too busy for him, away to Sherlock I went. Being my luck, my uncle hated me, knowing I wasn't as smart as he was. My photographic memory wasn't enough for him. I see Vienna at least twice a month, usually more. She's been dry for two months. To past the time, Mycroft let me wander down to Fred's once in a while. When I told Smokey about what happened, he pulled me not a big hug and started crying, which led to the whole pub celebrating.

"Did you forget what we're doing tonight? Why your brain is so small, I don't know." Sherlock's question jolted me out of my thought. He had already packed up all the stuff and was ready to leave.

"I did remember. Just was thinking."

"Your thinking is to slow. We're going to be late."

Coming up to the flat, I see John reach the door and knock as we got out of the cab.

"Hello," Sherlock said as he paid the driver. I smiled and gave a little wave, walking over. "How's it going John?"

"As well as it could be. And you?"

"Horrible."

He gave me a questioning look as Sherlock came up behind us.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

"Well, this is a prime spot," John stated, glancing up, "Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry - you stopped her husband being executed?"

I snorted and Sherlock gave me a punch on the arm.

"Ow."

"Oh no. I ensured it."

Mrs. Hudson then opened the door and embraced me fervently and then Sherlock.

"Theo, Sherlock, hello."

"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

"Hello."

"How do?"

We all came inside and Sherlock hopped up the stairs. I followed closely behind and we waited for John to hobble up. Sherlock threw open the door and dragged me inside, almost tipping over the boxes next to the couch.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," John stated, glancing around the room.

"Yes. Yes, I think so," Sherlock replied as I flopped down on the couch, "My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

At the same time, John also said, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ... Oh." He paused, quite embarrassed. I snickered and Sherlock threw a pillow at my face.

"So this is all ... " John trailed off, realizing that all the boxes in the room were one man's.

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." Sherlock hastily tried to clean up, although I would call it a half-hearted attempt. He dumped the two suitcases that were filled with my stuff next to me and John lifted his cane to point at Sherlock's skull on the mantelpiece. 

"That's a skull."

"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'..."

He trailed off as Mrs. Hudson came into the room, cheery as usual.   
"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." 

"Of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones." 

I glanced up in confusion. I thought I was going to stay in the room upstairs. Sherlock, who had turned around at this time, smirked at the same realization that I had made.

"Well, do you want me to arrange a cab?"

John sat up straighter in the armchair that he had just plopped into. "Hang on, are you kicking her out?"

Sherlock shrugged and Mrs. Hudson looked shocked. "Sherlock, you can't just throw your niece out of her own house!"

I sighed and placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's alright Mrs. Hudson. I'll just sleep on the couch. Besides, I never actually stay for more than a week or so."

John looked startled. "Wait, so you're not his daughter?"

I laughed, thinking the idea was ridiculous. "No, but we get that a lot."

Sherlock huffed and muttered something about my wonderful lack of brains.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said wearily, "The mess you've made."

I opened one of my suitcases to reveal a messenger bag taking up the entire space. Inside, was my laptop and all of my drawing supplies. You never know when the urge to paint will spring onto you. John and Sherlock were talking about his website, something I definitely was glad I wasn't interested in.

Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen, holding the newspaper. "What about these suicides than, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

I perked up at this news, definitely something worth listening to. Sherlock was staring out the window focused on a police car that had just pulled up. 

"Four. There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth," I asked hesitantly. 

Suddenly, Greg Lestrade came bounding up the stairs, a worried look on his face. Sherlock turned and his face didn't change. "Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

Sherlock grimaced, not happy. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant." 

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind." 

"Thank you."

Lestrade looked around and noticed me there. "Goodbye, Theo."

I nodded back to him and he left. Sherlock paused and then jumped up in the air in excitement.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." "

I'm your landlady, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied, "Not your housekeeper."

Sherlock just ignored the comment and turned to John. "Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Look after Thucydides for me. Don't wait up!" 

He patted me on the head like I was dog, before leaving. Mrs. Hudson sighed and smiled down at John. "Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

"Damn my leg," John yelled, making me jump. His face reddened a little and he apologized. 

Sighing he agreed to the cup of tea and a biscuit, causing Mrs. Hudson to repeat herself about being a landlady. He picked up a newspaper and was about to read it when Sherlock came bounding up the stairs and appeared in the doorway.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor." 

"Yes."

"Any good?" 

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths." 

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet." 

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"   
"Oh God, yes."

"Thucydides, come on. Can't have you sitting aimlessly. My brother would kill me."

I grabbed my jacket and bag, running down the stairs behind the two men.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea," John yelled back up the stairs, not really aware that she was standing at the bottom of the steps, "Off out". 

"All of you?"

I was already out of the door, trying to hail down a cab. Sherlock spun away from the door and came up to her, a large grin on his face. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

I glared at him as he came out and easily hailed the next black cab coming our way, giving me a smug look. I glared back and stuck my tongue out. Childish, but it was Sherlock I was dealing with.


	5. Jumping through Hoops

We sat in silence, me crammed up against the side window, Sherlock sitting next to me and John on the other side of him. Suddenly, Sherlock put down his phone and sighed

"Okay, you've got questions."

John jumped at the question. "Yeah, where are we going?"

I jumped in, Sherlock trying to cover my mouth. "Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you? What do you do?"

This time, Sherlock answered. "What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective ..."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

Sighing, I pulled out my sketchbook and ignored the rest of their talk. Holding it at an angle so Sherlock couldn't see, I tried to finish the portrait that I was doing of him. It wasn't the best I could do, but I definitely thought it was better than the one of Father. I silently snickered at that one, remembering the face he gave me. When I draw, I draw as realistically as possible, so I'm sorry if he happened to have some very long whiskers back then.

"That ... was amazing," John said in awe, surprising Sherlock. By the looks of it, the latter had just deduced most of the doctor's life in - I glanced over at what John was holding - a phone. 

The inscription on the phone had the words Harry Watson. Harry. I pondered on what she might look like. How I knew she was a 'she'? Easy, John was very caring and also dresses as though someone used to help him. Her real name was most likely Harriet.

"Do you think so?" Sherlock looked genuinely surprised, something very rare.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'!"

I laughed and John grinned. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't try to stop him and I could see a small smile forming around the corners of his mouth. I guess my uncle is warming up to his new friend.

*******

We arrived at Lauriston Gardens and got out, making our way over to the flashing lights.

"Did I get anything wrong," Sherlock asks.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

I then decided to test my theory out, not caring what Sherlock would say. "And Harry is short for Harriet, right John?"

He nodded and Sherlock paused in his tracks.

"Harry's your sister."

John and I continued to walk, the former starting to look confused again. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister!" Sherlock growled, "There's always something."

Approaching the building, Donovan came up, looking very unpleased. I presumed that she had a nice little run in with my uncle earlier and I wondered how that went. Her expression showed pure annoyance with him. Despite our mutual feelings about Sherlock, I never truly liked her.

"Hello, freak."

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look." Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

"Well, you know I what I think," she started, holding up the police tape so we could duck underneath.

"Always, Sally. I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't ... Er, who's this?" She was staring at John in both wonder and suspicion.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," Sherlock replied, turning to introduce people, "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"A colleague? How do you get a colleague?! What, did he follow you home?" I stepped closer to the woman, trying to find the best angle to choke her.

"Would it be better if I just waited and ..." John trailed off, unsure of what to say.

Sherlock shook his head and held up the tape. "No."

I followed, only getting a groan from Donovan. Slipping by Anderson, I made my way around the ground floor, careful to avoid touching anything. Lestrade came up behind me and sighed.

"He dragged you into this too? I thought you were going to stay home."

"Nope. I won't tell if you won't."

"Deal."

If Father found out that I was at a crime scene, everyone would be in a lot of trouble, especially Lestrade. 

We came back to a room where the police team was getting dressed in a coverall. A few moments later, Sherlock and John appeared, both having a smirk on their face. Lestrade handed me a pair of gloves and I put them on.

"Who's this," asked Lestrade, nodding toward John.

"He's with me." Sherlock refused to put on the coverall and luckily they didn't have any size for me. John glanced over and gave me a once-over. Realizing that I also didn't have to put on the coverall, he glowered a little.

Lestrade persisted. "But who is he?"

"I said he's with me."

John glanced over at me and Sherlock, noticing the lack of the coverall. "Aren't you gonna put one on?"

I shrugged and Sherlock just gave him a look. He turned back to Lestrade. "So where are we?"

"Upstairs."

We walked up a circular staircase and all the way up to the top. I made a mental note to sketch it and we came into the room. A woman's body is lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She is wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands are flat on the floor either side of her head. 

Sherlock walked a few steps into the room and then stopped, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focuses on the corpse. Behind him, John looked at the woman's body and his face fills with pain and sadness. The four of us stand there silently for several long seconds, then Sherlock looks across to Lestrade.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

I groaned, pulling out my sketchbook and started to work. Drawing the body wasn't that hard, but the face was going to be a pain. Sherlock stepped in front of me and kneeled down, blocking my view of the woman's face. 

Walking around to get a better angle, I noticed she had scratched the word RACHE with her fingertips. Rache meant revenge in German, but she definitely didn't have any German descent in her family. Going down the alphabet, I filled in the L and Rachel appeared. Sounded accurate, but I would need to see her face to find out. Sherlock finally stood, allowing me to take a look. The woman's face showed fear, pain and regret, but also a little bit of calm. Definitely a mother, or at least was a mother.


	6. Pink, lot's of it

"Got anything?"

"Not much." Sherlock took out his phone and started typing. Anderson came up in the doorway and began to talk about Germany.

"Yes, thank you for your imput," I replied sarcastically, slamming the door in his face.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. He hated me, but hated Anderson more.

"So she's German," Lestrade asked, puzzled.

"Of course she's not," Sherlock replied, annoyed at the horrible comment, "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night ... before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

John looked at him, astounded. "Sorry - obvious?"

"What do you think Doctor Watson?"

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," cried Lestrade.

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." Face it Lestrade, you're desperate.

"Yes ... because you need me."

"Yes, I do. God help me." I smirked at Lestrade's helpless face and strolled out, not caring what Sherlock would say. Let him yell later, he won't notice I'm gone for a few minutes. Heading back down the steps, I sadly run into Donovan.

"Where's Freak?"

"Upstairs. Why? You got a problem with him?"

"Why do you care? And who are you anyway? Lestrade just told me not to bother you."

"Theo Holmes. Niece of the Freak."

"Terribly sorry about that."

She shook her head and disappeared into another room. I wanted to go after her and punch her in the face, but decided against that action. Looking up, Sherlock came barreling down on top of me, yelling about a suitcase and I almost fell over the edge of the railing.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade and John were looking over the top railing in shock.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case," Sherlock grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me down the stairs with him, "Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." He paused and started to mutter to himself. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

I stared, puzzled. "But why-"

Sherlock cut me off, jumping around gleefully. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

I quickly also shouted out, "Daughter!"

"Of course, yeah - but what mistake?!"

Sherlock came running back up the stairs and shouted, "PINK!"

He finally finished lugging me around and let my wrist go, which most likely would start to bruise. We hopped into a cab and came back to the apartment and I crashed onto the chair, passing out from exhaustion.

Waking up from a bump on the shoulder, I see that John was back and had his phone out.

"On my desk there's a number," Sherlock was telling him, "I want you to send a text."  
"You brought me here ... to send a text. Couldn't you just had Theo do it?"

"No, she's asleep. Text, yes. The number on my desk."

John flowered at Sherlock for a moment and then reluctantly gave up, snatching the phone from his outstretched hand. Sherlock refolds his hands under his chin in a praying position and closes his eyes. Sitting up, I see John walk over to the window and look out of it into the street below. Sherlock opens his eyes and finally noticed I'm awake and gives a little wave.

He then tilts his head slightly towards John.

"What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours."

"A friend?" That's new.

"An enemy."

"Oh. Which one?"

"Our arch-enemy, according to him." He turns towards Sherlock. "Do people have arch-enemies?"

I internally laughed, quite sure of who this man was. 

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at me and then glanced towards John, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity," I said sadly, "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."  
John started, seeing I'm awake and looked at me strangely, like I told him I had two heads.

"Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not our problem right now. On Sherlock's desk, the number."

John gives both of us a dark look but Sherlock has already looked away again so John walks over to the desk and picks up a piece of paper taken from a luggage label. He looks at the name on the paper and I already know what's going to be on it.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was ... Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number."

Shaking his head, John gets his phone out and starts to type the number onto it. I watch in curiosity until I see Sherlock was going through my bag, which was on the sofa. Yanking it away from him, I see he had already gotten sketchbook out and was flipping through it.

"Are you doing it," I growled at John. 

"Yes."

Sherlock tossed my drawings back to me. "Have you done it?"

"Ye... hang on!"

"These words exactly: "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come."

John looks across to Sherlock again, frowning.

"You blacked out?"

"What? No. No! Type and send it. Quickly."

Going into the kitchen, Sherlock picks up a small pink suitcase from a chair and brings it back into the living room. When and where he got that, I didn't know.

Walking over to the dining table, he lifts one of the dining chairs and flips it around, setting it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace. He puts the suitcase onto the dining chair and sits down in the armchair. John is still typing.

"Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?"

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up!"

John finishes typing while I go and I have a peek in the case. There lots of stuff in it, but no phone. John looks over in disbelief. 

"That's ... that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously," I reply. John gives me a death glare. Sherlock realizes John's horror and tells him sarcastically, "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"  
"Now and then, yes."

I smirked at the comment, but then my phone rang.

"'xcuse me."

John, realizing Sherlock could've used my phone, glared at him. I went into the hall and sighed, seeing the ID number.


	7. Dinner and Distress

"Hello."

"Hello. I see you haven't died or gone to the hospital yet. Congratulate him for me."

"John said that he met you tonight."

"Yes."

"You could've just asked me."

"I wanted to meet the famous Doctor Watson."

"You have a whole file on him. Besides, you called me for a reason. Explain."

"Just checking up on you....and him. Oh and tell my dear brother that I'm waiting for that response."

"What response?"

"None of your business. I'll see you soon."

"Well, now that you have your information, goodbye Father."

I heard a sigh at the other end and he hung up. "Love you too." Sherlock came out and John was trailing him.

"Come along Thucydides. We're going out to eat."

I followed very confused and John just shrugged. 

"Where are we going?

Sherlock did a half turn. "Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?

"No - I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight," I piped up, giving dramatic hand gestures, "That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience."

John turns to look at Sherlock, giving him a pointed expression. "Yeah."

The detective was oblivious to it and kept walking. "This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Dunno," John replied, unsure if it was a rhetorical question or not, "Who?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

We went into the nearest restaurant and the head waiter sat us at a table next to the window. I moved to the side so John could have his back to the window. Sherlock untied his scarf and threw his jacket to the side. John and I did the same and we all settled in.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it." Sherlock nodded to the building behind us.

John glanced up and looked confused. "He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."

"He has killed four people."

"Okay..."

The head waiter, Angelo, came up to us and shook hands with Sherlock. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date."  
Sherlock turned to us and asked if wanted to eat. Simultaneously, John told Angelo that he wasn't Sherlock's date.

"This man got me off a murder charge."

"This is Angelo."

I smiled up at him and Angelo immediately recognized me.

"Ah, Theo Holmes. Pleasure to see you again."

Sherlock sighed and continued his explanation. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name. I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

As Angelo walks away, John shouts, "I'm not his date!"  
Sherlock sets his menu down and glances up at the both of us. "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait."

 

A while later, John and I got food. We were eating when John looked over at Sherlock. "People don't have arch-enemies."

Both Sherlock and I look up startled.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."  
Sherlock immediately looked disinterested and huffed. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'," Sherlock asked annoyed.

John hesitated. "Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying - dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?

Sherlock hadn't turned back around. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."  
"Mm." He turned to me, the question pretty obvious.

"No, I'm not dating anyone, if you must know."

John went back to torturing Sherlock, which I watched with glee. "Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?"

That question caught his attention. Sherlock turned around sharply and I burst into laughter at his face.

"Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No."

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good."

He continues eating and we resort back to a boring dinner. Sherlock looks at him suspiciously for a moment, then turns his attention out of the window again, but almost immediately look back.

"John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any ..."

John quickly interrupted, seeing where the conversation was headed. "No. No, I'm not asking. No."

"I'm just saying, it's all fine."

"Good. Thank you. Oh and if you ever decide to get a boyfriend, run him by me first."

He turned back to the window and John glances at me. I nod, showing that the last statement was directed to me.

"Look across the street. Taxi." Sherlock nodded out to the townhouses.

We all observed the car parked outside, sitting as if it wasn't on duty.

"Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him," John asked, nodding to the cab.

"Don't stare."

"You're staring."

"We can't both stare," I reply, getting a glare from both men.

Getting to his feet, Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf and heads for the door. John and I pick up our own jacket and follow. Outside the door, Sherlock shrugs himself into his coat while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi and it begins to pull away from the kerb. Sherlock immediately heads towards it and I shout to watch out for traffic. Ignoring my warning, he almost gets hit by a car and I goan.

John and I run after him, the former apologizing to the car. We chases after Sherlock, who runs a few yards up the road before realising that he's not going to catch the taxi and slows to a halt. I come up behind him and grab his arm to prevent him from running any farther. Let's just say that Sherlock isn't the only one with a very hard grip. John arrives next to us.

"I've got the cab number."

"Good for you."

I sigh and shake my head at John. "That's not going to help."  
Sherlock, instead of trying to break my grasp, just uses it to pull me along and we crash into a man opening his door. I hear John yell another apology and we all dashed up the stairs and onto a metal fire escape.

"Come on, John."


	8. Cabbie

Reaching the top of the stairs, Sherlock runs to the edge and looks over before seeing a shortcut. Luckily at this point, I had let go of his wrist and he leaps across the stair gap to the next building. I follow suit while John scrambles onto the railing and follows.

Sherlock runs across to the other side of the roof and again leaps across to the next building. I stop to wait for John, who when arriving, realises that the gap may be too big for him to jump across. He hesitates, looking down at the drop beneath him. I jump and desperately try to get him to do the same.

"Come on, John. We're losing him!"

John backs up a few paces, braces himself and then jumps, clearing the gap. Dropping down onto a walkway along the side of the building, we run onwards. Just as we make the corner of D'Arblay Street, into which the taxi is just turning, we miss it.

"Ah, no! This way."

Sherlock turns and heads back in the opposite direction. After the longest run, he races out of a side street and hurls himself into the path of the approaching cab, which screeches to a halt as he crashes hard into the bonnet. Scrabbling in his left coat pocket, Sherlock pulls out an I.D. badge and flashes it at the driver as he runs to the right hand side of the cab just as I reach him.

"Police! Open her up!"

Both of us panting heavily, he tugs open the rear door and stares in at the passenger, who looks back at him anxiously. Instantly I straightens up in exasperation just as John joins us.

"No."

Sherlock also is annoyed. "Teeth, tan: what - Californian? L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived. It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

"Sorry - are you guys the police?"

"Yeah. Everything all right?"

"Yeah. She doesn't look like the police," he replied, pointing at me.

"Undercover work, sir. Would appreciate it if you didn't question. Welcome to London."  
We walk away and John follows a second later.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down." He was out of breath.

"Basically." Sherlock was too.

"Not the murderer."

I sighed, exasperated. "Not the murderer, no."

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go."

John sees Sherlock's ID card. "Hey, where-where did you get this? Right. Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

John suddenly started to giggle and I joined in. Sherlock looked at us with a questioning look. "What?"

I suddenly notice that a police officer has stopped the cab and the passenger pointing at us. Tapping Sherlock on the shoulder, he turns and sees what I'm pointing at.

"Got your breath back?"

John glances over and nods. "Ready when you are."

We turn around and take off back down the road.  
*****

We arrived back at the flat and walk along the hallway, breathing heavily. John hangs his jacket on a hook on the wall while Sherlock drapes his coat over the bottom of the bannisters. As for myself, I just keep the leather jacket on.

John breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay, that was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

We all lean against the wall and pant our way to comfort.

"So what were we doing there?"

Sherlock clears his throat. "Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point."

John raises an eyebrow. "What point?"

"You," I reply, "Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs."

"Says who?"

Sherlock gives a pointed look at the door just as a knock came. "Says the man at the door."

John opens it and Angelo is standing outside. He gives John back his cane and hands me my laptop, which we left at the restaurant. I smile and was about to say something when Mrs. Hudson came out and looked very worried. 

"Sherlock, what have you done?"

We hurry up the stairs and burst into the living room. Lestrade is sitting casually in the armchair facing the door, flipping through my sketchbook. Other police officers are going through Sherlock's possessions. Sherlock storms over to Lestrade. 

"What are you doing?

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat."

"And you can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?"

"It's a drugs bust."

He finishes going through the pictures and hands it back to me."You should come work for us. We could use a forensic sketch artist like you." I give a small smile back before John cuts the conversation off.

"Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?! I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

Sherlock tells John to shut up and then turns back to Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog."

I head into the kitchen and get shoved to the side by Anderson, who does not look happy to see me. I also see Donovan and give her a death glare, which she doesn't notice, too busy focused on the eyeballs in the microwave.

"This is childish," Sherlock says angrily.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

"Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything. It would be bad to find anything, especially with a minor living here."

I held up my hands in defense. "Don't drag me into this."

"I am clean!"

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke."

Sherlock unbuttons the cuff of his left shirt and pulls it up to show a nicotine patch on his lower arm. Presumably he removed the other two earlier.

"Neither do I," Lestrade replied, showing a similar patch on his arm.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and I come back into the main room.

"So let's work together. We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?" Sherlock perked up.

"Thanks to Theo, we found that she is Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

Sherlock looked confused and turned to me. "When did you help them?"

"When you were dragging me down the staircase at the crime scene."

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

Anderson came out and pointed to the pink suitcase. "Never mind that. We found the case. According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.  
You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."

I snort. "She's dead."

"Excellent! How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

I sighed and shook my head. "Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

Lestrade stared at me. "How do you know all of that? We just got the information."

I hold up the laptop smugly. "Had a lead and I followed it."

Lestrade just sighed, knowing he couldn't do anything about it.

Sherlock started to pace. "No, that's ... that's not right. How ... Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments," Anderson looked shocked, "Yup - sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

"She didn't think about her daughter," Sherlock retaliated, "She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt."

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it," John spoke up, "Well, maybe he ... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Mrs. Hudson came up and stood in the doorway. "Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away."

"Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson," John tells her.

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers."

Sherlock suddenly stopped and started to shout, "Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My face is?!"

"Everybody quiet and still," Lestrade commanded, "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"Your back, now, please!"

Sherlock's face suddenly brightened and I knew he had a brilliant idea. "Oh. She was clever, clever, yes!"

He began to pace again. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

Lestrade still was confused, but I began to grin, seeing where Sherlock was headed.

"Rachel," I shouted and for the first time in awhile, I saw my uncle give an approving smile.

Sherlock grabbed his laptop and started to go into the email of Jennifer Wilson. Mrs. Hudson came back up and told Sherlock that the taxi was still outside. He cut her off and I told her I would go and dismiss the cab. Walking outside, I see the driver standing by the taxi, waiting patiently. Something seemed very very off though.

"Oi, you the taxi for Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes."

"You can leave. He doesn't need you right now."

Turning to leave, I heard a movement behind me and jumped into action. I was too slow and after a short scuffle, the driver had me pinned to the cab in no time. A knife was pressed to my throat and the driver smirked.

"Thought you could outwit me, ey?"


	9. Wait, who?

I was thrown into the taxi and I groaned loudly, realizing my ankle had twisted. The man opened the door again and put his finger to his lips. It was a while before I saw Sherlock come out of the building and have a short conversation. He got in and didn't look surprised to see me there. We drove off and I winced at the bumps in the road.

Sherlock stared out of the window. "How did you find me?"

"Oh, I recognised yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'olmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!"

"Who warned you about me?"

"Just someone out there who's noticed you."

I perked up at this. "Who?"

At the same time, Sherlock asked, "Who would notice me?"

"You're too modest, Mr 'olmes."

"I'm really not."

"You've got yourself a fan."

"Tell me more."

"That's all you're gonna know... in this lifetime."

The rest of the ride was silent until we reached two identical buildings, most likely used for classes of some sort.

"Where are we," Sherlock asked.

"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College," I replied after Sherlock hesitated, "Why here?"

The driver looked a little surprised, but continued his explanation. "It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

Sherlock still wanted to know more. "And you just walk your victims in? How?"

The man pulled out a gun and Sherlock and I sighed simultaneously. It was a fake, obviously and I was surprised other people didn't notice.

"Oh, dull."

"Don't worry. It gets better."

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."

"I don't. It's much better than that. Don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me and the girl will follow you."

He confidently walks away. Sherlock sits for a moment, then grimaces in exasperation. I knew I wasn't going to budge and Sherlock noticed. He followed the man and I sat in the cab, unsure of what to do. Taking my phone out, I called John with my good hand. I was surprised the guy hadn't taken it.

"John, hey-"

"Theo, are you okay? I have your location and I'm coming over. I just called Lestrade."

"Sherlock, he went into the building and I couldn't follow him."

"Why not?"

"Twisted my ankle and banged my head pretty bad."

I hung up and waited, desperate to go in. After around five minutes, I slowly got up and glanced around at all the stories. A shooting pain came from my ankle and head at the same time. Sitting back down in the cab, I felt dizzy and passed out.

*****

I woke to a gunshot and I jumped, wincing. What was that? Looking around, police cars and ambulances were pulling up and I saw John come running out.

"John," I shouted and he came over.

"Are you okay?"

"I have no idea. Don't tell anyone yet - please," I added, seeing his shocked face.

"Of course."

He helped me hobble off the scene and we stood to wait for Sherlock. When he did come over, my uncle had a calm face.

"Good shot," he says quietly to John.

"Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well, you'd know."

I nudged John a little. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

Sherlock looks at him as John clears his throat. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"Well, you have just killed a man."

I saw a car coming our way and started to hobble towards it, then stopping, realizing that it would be better for Sherlock and John to be here when I get a scolding. The two men finally make their way over, trying to suppress giggles. John notices the car and the man who got out of it and almost stops in his tracks.

"Sherlock. That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about."

"I know exactly who that is."

We all come closer as Father stands by the car and smiles at Sherlock.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you. And I came to make sure Theo was okay."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!"

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy."

I see John frown and look at Sherlock.

"I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

I sighed and held up my hands. "Boys, please."

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John glanced back and forth between everyone.  
Sherlock gave a cruel glance over to Father. "Mother - our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact."

"He's your brother," John said in amazement and turned to me, "And he's your Father."

"Of course he's my brother." Sherlock looked a little baffled.

"So he's not ..."

"Not what?" We all stare at John, who just shakes his head in confusion.

"I dunno - criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough," Sherlock states with aggressive intentions.

"For goodness' sake," Father said annoyed, "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft sighs and then notices my awkward position.

"Sherlock, what happened," he asked furiously, waving a hand at my ankle and head.

Sherlock noticed that I was standing on one foot. "Sprained ankle, and just a slight bang in the head. She'll be fine."

Mycroft huffed and pointed to the car. I rolled my eyes and hobbled in.

"Good evening, Mycroft," Sherlock said, turning, "Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

John stayed behind for a second. "So, when-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Yes, of course."

"I mean, it actually is a childish feud?"

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

I sighed and shut the door, blocking all the other conversation out. A few minutes later, Mycroft stepped inside and drove me to the hospital.


	10. Explosives

"Theo, let's go."

"Coming!"

I hurriedly grabbed my jacket and ran out the door and smacked into Father when I turned the corner. After a few curse words, we were on our way to Baker Street. Father had to deal with the Korean election or something or other and didn't want me in the way, per usual.

Over the course of a month, I had developed my artistry skills and picked up the hobby of singlestick. Hopefully, I could interest Sherlock in the habit, instead of him shooting up the wall. The ride was in silence and I finished up the sketch of John, which I was very excited to give to him. The picture was pretty good, in my humble opinion.

"Please try not to break anymore bones," Father sighed as we pulled up to a demolished building.

Checking the news, I see that the report was about a gas leak explosion. Showing Father, he just sighed and rolled his umbrella in one hand. He was still mad at Sherlock since the last time I visited. Since then, the only way I had access to his cases was the blog that John wrote. Father handed me a folder as I got out and I paused, seeing all the emergency vehicles. Walking away from the car, I saw him following me.

"You're coming in?"

"I need to speak with your uncle about some important matters," he told me, picking his way through the rubble. It took a few minutes to get pass the police, but we made it to the apartment. Sherlock was sitting inside, his violin poised in the air as if he was about to play.

"Mycroft. You're here to discuss something with me."

"Of course I am. I would say to sit, but you're already doing that."

I took the sofa while Father took the chair across from Sherlock. The two adults stared at each other for a while, the younger plucking his violin strings, until John came bounding up the stairs. He gave me a puzzled look and turned to Sherlock, trying to ignore the other Holmes.

"I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?"

Sherlock glanced around at all the broken glass and scattered paperwork. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently."

He looks back to his brother, who stares at him pointedly while Sherlock plucks his violin strings again.

"I can't."

I glanced up, surprised that Sherlock had already deduced what his brother was going to ask. That or either he was just too lazy to even consider any offer.

Father glowered. "Can't?"

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time." 

John looks across to him in disbelief. I did the same, knowing that he didn't have any clients at the moment. When there's a smiley face on the wall above me, Sherlock is definitely bored.

"Never mind your usual trivia," Father huffed, "This is of national importance."

Sherlock flicked his fingers across the strings. "How's the diet?"

I giggled, knowing what Sherlock was implying. Father threw a death glare at me and sighed.

"Fine. Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

John had walked nearer to the windows to investigate the damage done and turned in surprise. "What?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

Sherlock glanced up in annoyance. "If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?"

"No-no-no-no-no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time - not with the Korean elections so ..."

He trails off as John turns towards him in surprise and Sherlock raises his head from looking at his violin. I realized that the Korean election business was top secret and made a mental note to ask about it later. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you," he continued, showing his smile that meant don't ask questions. "Besides, a case like this - it requires ... legwork." He sneered at the word.

Sherlock mis-plucks one of his strings, an irritated look on his face. He turns to John, who is absently rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

"How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?"

Father was consulting his pocket watch and not even looking at John, but we both chimed in at the same time, "Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa."

Sherlock briefly looks John up and down and sees what we mean. "Oh yes, of course."

John grimaced, his face turning pink. "How ...? Oh, never mind."

He sits down on the coffee table and Father smiles across at him.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became ... pals."

Sherlock throws him a dark look and I get ready to come over in case of the need for intervention.

Father continues his conversation and waves me over. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored."

"Good! That's good, isn't it," he comments holding his hand out for the folder he had given me. I hand it over and Sherlock tried to poke me with the end of his bow. Father steps forward and offers the folder to his brother, but Sherlock just looks back at him stubbornly.

Grimacing and poking his tongue into the corner of his mouth, Father turns and offers the folder to John instead. "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?"

"Seems the logical assumption."

John gave a quick smile. "But ...?"

"But what?" I prompted.

"Well, he wouldn't be here if it was just an accident."

"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system - the Bruce-Partington Programme, it's called."

Father looks at Sherlock while John starts flicking through the folder. I take the seat across from Sherlock and give him a little kick.

"The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John laughs quietly and then speaks up. "That wasn't very clever." Sherlock and I smile in agreement.

"It's not the only copy."

"Oh."

"But it is secret. And missing."

"Top secret?

"Very," Mycroft emphasizes, "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. "

He turns back to his brother. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Breathing in sharply through his nose, Sherlock raises the violin to his shoulder, ready to play. He looks calmly at his brother and gives me a wink.

"I'd like to see you try."

Father leans down to him a little. "Think it over."

Sherlock stares back at him, unimpressed. Father turns and walks over to John, offering him his hand to shake. John takes it, a nervous smile appearing on his face.

"Goodbye, John. See you very soon."

He comes over to me and bends down to kiss my head. I hold my hand up to stop him, knowing that it would become awkward if he continued. Father notices and stops halfway, instead nodding.

"Try not to kill her."

As he heads back towards the chair to pick up his coat, Sherlock begins to repeatedly play a short irritating sequence of notes. John frowns and I kick him again, but he continues to play until Father has left the room and is on the stairs. Grimacing in the direction of his brother's back, Sherlock finishes and lowers the violin, still looking annoyed. John sits back down on the coffee table we all sit in silence until the front door slams shut.


	11. The Earth Revolves Around the Sun

"Why'd you lie," he asks Sherlock curiously, "You've got nothing on - not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh," he says, coming to the realization. Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere." 

Sherlock turns and opens his mouth, but before he can deny everything his phone starts to ring. I look over as he whips his bow down, puts it on the seat beside him and fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket.

"Sherlock Holmes."

He listens for a moment, then his expression lights up. I lean in closer to hear who was calling, but Sherlock pushes me back with his bow and taps my head.

"Of course. How could I refuse?"

Standing up and switching off the phone as he puts his violin onto the seat, he heads for the door.

"Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?" He nods over to John and I stand.

"If you want me to."

"Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger. Hurry up Thucydides."

After a silent ride to New Scotland Yard, we meet Lestrade and he leads us across the general office towards his office.

"You like the funny cases, don't you," he asks Sherlock, "The surprising ones."

"Obviously."

"You'll love this. That explosion ..." He trailed off as we came into his office.

"Gas leak, yes?

"Probably no," I ask Lestrade and he nods.

Sherlock's face formed into confusion. "No?"

"No," I repeated, "Made to look like one."

Lestrade sighed. "How the hell do you always know all of this?"

I shrugged in response and we see a white envelope lying on his desk. Sherlock eyes it meticulously.

"You haven't opened it?"

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?"

Sherlock reaches to pick it up just as Lestrade tells us it wasn't booby-trapped.

"How reassuring."

He picks up the envelope and takes it across the room to another table which has an anglepoise lamp on it. Holding the envelope close to the bulb he examines both sides carefully.

"Nice stationery. Bohemian. From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No."   
"She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold - iridium nib."

Sherlock picks up a letter opener from the desk and carefully slits the envelope open. He looks inside and his mouth opens a little in surprise as he reaches in and takes out a pink iPhone.

I take in a sharp breath as does most of the room. It obviously wasn't the same phone, but why would the person go through all that trouble.

John looked shocked. "But that's - that's the phone, the pink phone."

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade looked confused.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like ..." Sherlock stops when he realises what Lestrade just said. He turns to face him. Donovan has come into the room to put some files down on a desk near the door.

"The Study in Pink? You read his blog?"

"Course I read his blog! We all do. D'you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?"

Donovan sniggers loudly. Sherlock, who is taking off his gloves, glares at her while John purses his lips in embarrassment.

I trip Donovan on her way out and she gives me a dirty look.

"It isn't the same phone," I comment as Sherlock examines it, "This one's brand new."

"Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." Sherlock throws an accusatory look at John, who does his best to ignore it. He switches on the phone and immediately gets a voice alert.

"You have one new message."

The message plays but there is no voice - just the unmistakable sound of the Greenwich Time Signal.

John leans forward a little. "Is that it?"

"No. That's not it."

A photograph has also been uploaded to the phone. Sherlock opens it and Lestrade and I come across to look over his shoulder.

The picture is of an unfurnished room with a fireplace on one wall. The wallpaper is peeling and there's a tall mirror propped up in one corner. A smaller mirror - the type which is usually hung up above a fireplace - is standing on the mantelpiece.

The room was silent and I was squished between two very tall men, making me uncomfortable.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that," Lestrade yells into my ear, "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"

Sherlock was gazing to the distance, trying to process what he saw. "It's a warning."

"A warning," John asks.

I nod to confirm what Sherlock said. "Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again. And I've seen this place before."

Sherlock and I hurry out the door and John followed us.

"H-hang on. What's gonna happen again?"

Sherlock turns back and raising his hands dramatically goes,

"Boom!"

Lestrade grabs his coat and we all get into a taxi together.


	12. Bad Timing

In front of the flat, Sherlock unlocks the front door and leads the way inside, bypassing the stairs and heading along the corridor towards Mrs Hudson's front door.

Just as he reaches it he stops and turns to the left where there is another door leads to a basement flat. Numbers and letters stuck on the door read, "221c".

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock calls into her door. I turn and knock, in case she didn't hear him.

She comes out and hands Sherlock a set of keys. He has been examining the padlock attached to the other door and now takes the keys and begins to unlock it.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat. So did Theo."

Sherlock looked closely at the lock on the knob. "The door's been opened recently."

"No, can't be," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "That's the only key."

Pulling the padlock off, Sherlock selects another key and puts it into the door's keyhole. He finally gets the door open and the group comes through.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock slowly pushes open the door to the living room and walks inside, followed by the other three.

The room looks exactly as it did in the photograph on the phone with one exception: there is a pair of trainers placed neatly side by side in the middle of the floor, their toes pointed towards the door. John and I stop and look at them before he states the obvious.

"Shoes."

Sherlock starts to walk towards them but John holds out a cautionary hand towards him.

"He's a bomber, remember."

Sherlock stops for a moment, then continues slowly towards the trainers. I stand next to him, Lestrade moving in front of me, just in case something might happen. My uncle crouches down, then puts his hands on the floor and leans forward. Lowering his body down he moves closer to the shoes.

Just as his nose is almost touching them, a phone rings. Sherlock jumps, closes his eyes momentarily and then stands up, pulls off his glove and takes the pink iPhone from his coat pocket and looks at the caller I.D.

He pauses for a second, then switches on the speaker, holding the phone a few inches in front of his mouth.

"Hello," he asks softly, the same voice he used to use when I first got sick.

A woman's voice comes through, her breath shaky. "H-hello ... sexy."

All four of us share a puzzled look while Sherlock keeps talking.

Closing my eyes, I listen to the was the woman sounds, trying to ignore the sobs. "Who's this?"

"I've ... sent you ... a little puzzle ... just to say hi."

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

"I-I'm not ... crying ... I'm typing... and this ... stupid ... bitch ... is reading it out."

"The curtain rises," Sherlock half whispers to himself.

John looked bewildered. "What?"

"Nothing.

"No, what did you mean,"John pestered.

Sherlock half turns to us and whispers, "I've been expecting this for some time."

The woman responded to this statement. "Twelve hours to solve ... my puzzle, Sherlock... or I'm going ... to be ... so naughty."

The phone goes dead and we all stand there in shock. Lestrade rubs his face, confused as to what to do. John is still staring at Sherlock, wanting him to answer what he wants.

I walk over to Lestrade, but stop halfway as my phone rings. The three men turn to look over, and Sherlock snorts.

"Daddy's calling."

I glare and answer it.

"Really bad timing Father."

A snort is heard at the other end and then Sherlock's phone dings. He pulls it out and scoffs seeing the text message. Putting it away, the three men walked out, leaving me alone in the room. My phone buzzed, indicating that I had gotten a message. "Hold on a moment."

I checked the sender, but it was a hidden number. The text read, Turn around. I did.

Third person P.O.V

Sherlock opens a door leading into the area surrounding an indoor swimming pool. The lights are on but there is nobody visible in the area. Somewhere between Baker Street and here, he has taken off his coat and is just wearing his suit, so presumably the heating is on as well.

He walks slowly towards the shallow end of the pool, probably very aware that the upper gallery where people sit and watch the swimmers is still in darkness. He stops at the edge of the pool and turns, trying to see up into the viewing gallery.

Finally he turns towards the pool again, raising one hand and holding up the memory stick.   
Sherlock starts to speak loudly.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance - all to distract me from this."

 

He gestures with the memory stick, then begins to turn in a slow circle while he waits for a response. When his back is turned to the pool, a door opens halfway down the room. Sherlock looks over his shoulder, still holding the memory stick aloft. And John walks through the door and into the pool area, wrapped snugly in a hooded jacket with his hands tucked into the pockets. He turns and looks at Sherlock as the detective stares back at him in absolute shock

"Evening."

Sherlock's raised hand begins to lower slowly but otherwise he doesn't move, still staring over his shoulder in utter disbelief.

John's face looks pained. "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock is shocked and whispers, "John. What the hell ...?"

"Bet you never saw this coming."

Finally Sherlock manages to move, and starts to walk slowly towards the man he had believed to be his friend until now. The shock and bewilderment on his face make him look about twelve years old.

Then, with a look of despair which matches Sherlock's, John takes his hands from his pockets and pulls open his jacket to reveal the bomb strapped to his chest. From somewhere in the upper gallery, a sniper's laser immediately begins to dance around over the bomb.

"What ... would you like me ... to make him say ... next?"


	13. Cliffhanger

Sherlock continues to step towards him but now he is looking everywhere but at John as he tries to see who else is in the area.

John is obviously narrating words spoken into an earpiece. "Gottle o' geer ... gottle o' geer ... gottle o' geer." His voice almost breaks on the last phrase.

Sherlock begins to panic. "Stop it."

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." He tries not to cringe as he listens to the next words. "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

Sherlock turns on the spot while he tries to look in all directions. "Who are you?"

A door opens at the far end of the pool and a soft male voice with an Irish accent speaks from that direction.

"I gave you my number."

Sherlock can see a brief glimpse of a man wearing a suit and tie, but he is currently mostly obscured by a column.

"I thought you might call."

Sherlock turns towards the new arrival, who now slowly walks out into the open. It's Jim, Molly's boyfriend. But this isn't the fumble-fingered casually-dressed Londoner who did indeed leave his number for Sherlock in the lab at Bart's; this is a sharply-dressed man with immaculate hair and a murderous look on his face. With his hands in his pockets, he casually begins to stroll alongside the deep end of the pool, heading towards Sherlock and John. All hint of plaintiveness has now gone from his voice.

Jim feigned surprise as he states, "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock raises the pistol he just pulled out and aiming it towards Jim. "Both."

Jim stops and looks back at him, unafraid. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

Sherlock tilts his head as he looks more closely at the man. Jim decides that he needs to remind Sherlock who he is.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" He begins to walk alongside the deep end again.

Sherlock brings up his other hand to support the one aiming the gun.

Jim bites his lip, showing his disappointment. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."

Turning, he faces Sherlock just as the sniper's laser flickers over John's upper chest. Sherlock briefly turns his head towards John, a questioning look on his face.

Jim resumes his pacing, all the while staring straight at the detective. " Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He reaches the corner of the pool and stops.

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see...like you!" He pauses, realizing the connection he just had made.

Sherlock sneers. "Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"   
Moriarty smirks. "Just so."

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock breathes softly, "Brilliant."  
Jim smiles proudly, his vanity completely evident. " Isn't it? No-one ever gets to me - and no-one ever will."

Cocking the pistol, Sherlock's face doesn't change. "I did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

Jim shrugs. "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting is over, Sherlock ... Daddy's had enough now! I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

John is starting to feel the strain and closes his eyes briefly. Sherlock's eyes can't help but flicker across to him a couple of times as he tries to keep his focus on the man approaching them.

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." He smiles. "Although I have loved this - this little game of ours..." He puts on his London accent for a moment. "Playing Jim from I.T." He switches back to his Irish accent. "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Sherlock sneers in disgust. "People have died."

"That's what people DO," He screams, his personality changing in an instant.

"I will stop you." Sherlock's voice was barely over a whisper.

"No you won't," Jim replied, back to his calm demeanor, "Because I have someone you want."

Sherlock looks across to John, thinking he meant him. Jim snorts, but the detective doesn't pay attention to it.

"You all right?"

John deliberately keeps his gaze away from his friend. Jim walks forward again and reaches his side.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

Refusing to specifically obey Jim's orders, John meets Sherlock's eyes and nods once. Sherlock takes one hand off the pistol and holds out the memory stick towards Jim.

"Take it."

"Huh? Oh! That!" He strolls past John and reaches out for the stick, grinning.

"The missile plans!"

He takes the stick from Sherlock's fingers and brings it to his mouth, kissing it.

Behind him, John is silently murmuring to himself, perhaps trying to keep himself focussed, perhaps winding himself up to take action.

Jim lowers the memory stick and looks at it.   
"Boring! I could have got them anywhere."

He nonchalantly tosses the stick into the pool.

Seeing his opportunity, John races forward and slams himself up against Jim's back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. Sherlock backs up a step in surprise but keeps the pistol raised and aimed at Jim.

"Sherlock, run!"

Jim laughs in delight.

"Good! Very good."

Sherlock doesn't move, still aiming his gun at Jim's head but now starting to look up a little anxiously, as if wondering what action the hidden sniper might take.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we both go up," John says savagely.

Jim glanced over and smiles. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets."

Grimacing angrily, John pulls him even closer onto the bomb which is now sandwiched between them. Jim scowls round at him.

"They're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!"

He pulled out a pistol, but instead of aiming it at John, he hit the wall and Sherlock heard a cry in pain.

He had hit a person, a person standing behind a column, invisible to even John.

"Who did you hit?" Sherlock didn't dare to move.

Instead of answering, Jim grins briefly at John, then looks towards Sherlock.

"You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

He chuckles as a new laser point appears in the middle of

Sherlock's forehead. John stares in horror as Jim looks round at him expectantly. Sherlock, either seeing the edge of the laser beam shining from the gallery or realising what's happening from John's expression, shakes his head slightly.

Jim smirks and says in a sing-song voice, "Gotcha!"

He chuckles as John releases his grip on him and steps back, holding his hands up to signal to the sniper that he won't be trying anything else.

Jim goes over to the side and grabs a person by the arm.

"Say hi sweetheart."

The person he pulled into the light made Sherlock grimace. Theo, who had a very sour face, was between him and Moriarty. How he got a hold of her, he didn't know.

The girl had a cut down the side of her face, and blood was trickling down the side of her leg, where the bullet must've hit her. Her hands were tied behind her back.

Jim had one hand around her arm, and started to squeeze it tight. Jim glances round at John, then turns back towards Sherlock while brushing his hand down his suit to straighten it. He gestures to it indignantly. Lowering his hand, he stands calmly in front of Sherlock who is aiming the pistol at his head. The detective had to raise it a bit, in the fact that he didn't want to hit his niece.

"D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, let me guess: I get killed."

"Kill you?" Jim shakes his head, "N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you."

He runs his eyes briefly down Sherlock's body, then meets his eyes again and his voice becomes vicious. He tightened a grip on Theo's arm, causing her to wince.

"I'll burn the heart out of you."

His face is a snarl as he says the word 'heart' but at the end of the sentence he looks almost regretful.

Sherlock replies to this statement softly. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

Sherlock blinks involuntarily. Jim looks down, smiling, then shrugs. Theo also smiles weakly, knowing what Jim is saying is true.

"Well, I'd better be off."

He nonchalantly looks around, perhaps checking his exit route, before turning back to Sherlock.

Letting go of Theo's arm, he pushes her forward. She stumbles a little before John steadies her.

"Well, so nice to have had a proper chat. Good kid."

Sherlock raises the pistol higher and extends it closer to Jim's head.

"What if I was to shoot you now - right now? "

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face."

He opens his eyes and mouth wide, mimicking surprise, then grins at Sherlock.

"'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

Jim slowly turns away and walks off "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Looking back at Sherlock with some distaste, he walks calmly towards the side door through which John came earlier. Sherlock slowly steps forward to keep him in his sights.

"Catch ... you ... later," Sherlock says quietly, at the same time taking Theo gently by the arm.

The door opens and Jim's voice can be heard, high-pitched and sing-song.

"No you won't!"

The door closes. Sherlock doesn't move for a few seconds, his gun still aimed towards the door, then his gaze drifts across to John and he instantly bends, putting the pistol on the floor, then drops to his knees in front of John and starts unfastening the vest to which the bomb is attached.

Theo leans down and her breath becomes heavy. The bleeding had stopped, but Sherlock could easily see the bullet in her leg. He turned back to John.

"All right?"

John tilts his head back, breathing heavily and doesn't respond. Sherlock repeats his question.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine."

Having unfastened the vest, Sherlock jumps up and hurries round behind John, starting to pull off the jacket and the bomb vest.

"I'm fine," John repeats.

Sherlock, also breathing too fast, continues tugging at the jacket and vest. Theo steps back, giving Sherlock free reign. By this time, she had already gotten the ropes off her wrists.

John starts to realize what's going on. "Sherlock..."

Finally Sherlock manages to roughly strip the jacket and vest off John's arms.

"Sh-Sherlock!"

Sherlock bends and skims the items as far away along the floor as he can, while John staggers at the vehemence with which his friend just ripped them off him. He reaches up and pulls the earpiece from his ear, breathing heavily as delayed shock begins to hit him.

Sherlock turns and stares at him for a moment, then hurries back to pick up the pistol before racing towards the door through which Moriarty left. John's knees buckle and he staggers towards the nearest support, the edge of one of the changing cubicles.

"Oh, Christ."

He turns and drops down into a squat, bracing his back against the cubicle's edge as he blows out a long breath and tries to calm himself down. Sherlock comes back in, having apparently seen no sign of Moriarty outside. He starts to pace up and down near John, so hyper and distracted that he doesn't even realise that he is scratching his head with the business end of a loaded and cocked pistol. Theo rubbed her arm and glances over at John. The two exchanged a certain look and turned back to Sherlock.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock was still pacing and scratching his head with the gun "Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine."

He turns to John, wide-eyed and breathless. "That, er ... thing that you, er, that you did - that, um ... you offered to do. That was, um ... good."

"I'm glad no-one saw that."

Sherlock had temporarily lowered his hand long enough not to be risking accidentally shooting himself in the head, although he had terrible jitters as he held the gun down by his side. Now he lifts the gun again as he raises his hand to rub his chin while looking down at John in confusion.

"Hmm?"

John wasn't looking Sherlock in the eyes. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Sherlock shrugs. "People do little else."

He looks down at John, then grins. Theo begins to giggle and John snorts laughter. He then leans forward and prepares to stand up. But before he can move, the beam from a sniper's laser begins to dance over his chest. John looks down at it and his face fills with horror.

"Oh ..."

A door near the deep end of the pool opens and Jim comes through, clapping his hands together and turning to face the group.

"Sorry, boys and girl! I'm soooooo changeable!"

John grimaces in disbelief. Sherlock keeps his back to Jim, looking up into the gallery to try and judge how many snipers there might be up there.

It's becoming clear that there are quite a few because there are at least two laser points hovering over John, and at least three more travelling over Sherlock's body. Theo has four, three of them on her forehead, one one her hand. Jim laughs and spread his arms wide.

"It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

He lowers his hands and puts them in his pockets. Sherlock turns his head and looks down at John, who lifts his own head to meet his gaze.

Jim was smiling broadly. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but ... everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock, who had looked away from John for a moment, now turns and looks down at him again, his face showing no emotion but his eyes screaming a silent request. John responds instantly with a tiny nod, giving him full permission to do whatever he deems necessary. Sherlock does the same thing with Theo and she nods.

Sherlock spins, turning to face Jim. "Probably my answer has crossed yours."

He raises the pistol and aims it at him. Jim smiles confidently with no fear in his expression. Slowly Sherlock lowers the pistol downwards until it's pointing directly at the bomb jacket. All three sets of eyes lock onto the jacket, John breathing heavily, Sherlock calm. Jim tilts his head, looking a little anxious for the first time. Theo slowly backs up against the wall next to John and her breathing slowing down.

As Sherlock holds his hand steady, continuing to aim towards the jacket, Jim lifts his head and locks eyes with his nemesis. Sherlock gazes back at him and Jim begins to smile. Sherlock's eyes narrow slightly.


	14. Beginning of the Close

As he and Jim Moriarty stare at each other, the introduction to The Bee Gees' song "Stayin' Alive" begins to play tinnily. Sherlock, John and Theo look around, confused. Jim briefly closes his eyes and sighs in exasperation.

"D'you mind if I get that?"

"No, no, please. You've got the rest of your life," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

Jim takes his phone from his pocket and answers it. "Hello? ... Yes, of course it is. What do you want?"

He mouths 'Sorry' at Sherlock, who sarcastically mouths 'Oh, it's fine' back at him. Jim rolls his eyes as he listens to the phone, turning away from Sherlock for a moment, then he spins back around, his face full of fury.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!"

Everyone jumps a little and Sherlock and Theo exchange a frown.

Jim replies into the phone, his voice filled with hate. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will ssssskin you....wait."

Lowering the phone, he begins to walks forward. Sherlock looks at the bomb jacket and fretfully adjusts the grip on his pistol as Jim approaches. Jim stops at the jacket and gazes down at the floor thoughtfully before lifting his eyes to Sherlock.

Jim smiles sadly. "Sorry. Wrong day to die."

Sherlock doesn't move. "Oh. Did you get a better offer?"

The villain looks down at the phone, then turns and slowly starts to walk away. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock."

He strolls back around the pool towards the door through which he originally came, lifting the phone to his ear again. 

"So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

Reaching the door, he raises his free hand and clicks his fingers. Instantly all the lasers focused on Sherlock, John and Theo disappear. As Jim walks through the door and vanishes from sight, Sherlock looks around the gallery but apparently can see no sign of the retreating snipers. John sighs out a relieved breath.

"What happened there?

"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock replies in an awed manner, "The question is: who?"

Theo POV

I was in a very bad mood today. Because of the incident at the pool, Father would not allow me out of the house. To his benefit, if I had gotten a phone call from my most hated brother, stating that my kid was in the hospital, I would freak. 

Instead, I am now on high-tale surveillance by most of the British Government. It was fine until a few days ago, when I finally had been driven insane by the news and wanted to go out. Beth, the woman who was in charge of looking after me, strictly forbid anything besides reading a book, watching TV or mind games provided my father. 

The bullet had hit right below the knee and by a miracle, it hadn't gone all the way through, despite the short distance between me and the gun. So far, it has healed pretty nicely, but I still have a limp and need a crutch. 

John would continually text me, helping to keep Sherlock updated without the detective having to do the work. I read the blog every time there was an update and I usually commented on it. John finally guessed that it was me and sent me a private link so we could chat. The two had become an internet sensation and I was reading one of the newspapers with the headline of Sherlock Holmes: Net phenomenon.

At the present moment, Father was seated in a chair across from me, filling some forms. His cell rang and he ignored it until the ID number popped up. 

"Hello?"

The muffled voice at the end sounded very urgent.

"Yes, of course. I'll be down there-" He was cut off and then rummaged his folders around. "Yes, I have it."

He hung up and sighed, rubbing his forehead. Glancing at me, he tilts his head a little before standing. 

"How easily can you walk?"

We arrived at Buckingham Palace in around 15 minutes, more or less. Father had told me to be on my best behavior and I couldn't agree more wholeheartedly. Last time, we came here was 3 years ago. Father had gone to introduce me to all of his co-workers and we ended up at the the Palace. The Queen's dogs were adorable and really liked me. Surprisingly, one of the guards said that they usually don't adapt to strangers very well. 

The gold and red made me seem like I was in the Gryffindor common room, only a lot more fancier. On the way in, Father glanced at the case Sherlock had been working on. The answer was pretty obvious and I couldn't believe that my uncle would have a problem with it. We strolled in - well, I hobbled in- and the sight we saw was quite startling. 

Sherlock was sitting on one of the couches with no clothes on except for a sheet. John was sitting next to him, the two giggling like teenage girls. Father sighs. 

"Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?"

"We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope," John replied, obviously not taking things seriously.

Sherlock looks up at both of us, all humour gone from his face."I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft."

"What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent."

"Very," I chimed in and both of the men glared at me. Of course, I wasn't supposed to comment on the matter.

"Time to move on, then," Father says, bending down and picking up the clothes and shoes from the table, turning to offer them to Sherlock. 

His brother gazes at them uninterested. The elder brother sighs.

"We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."

Sherlock shrugs. "What for?"


	15. Client?

"And my client is?"

At this, Harry comes in and smiles, having heard the conversation. 

"Illustrious ...in the extreme. And remaining - I have to inform you - entirely anonymous."

He looks across to Mycroft. 

"Mycroft!"

"Harry," my Father replies, as he walks over and shakes the equerry's hand. Harry then turned to me and shook mine as Mycroft apologised for Sherlock's appearance. 

"And this must be Doctor John Watson," Harry states, holding out one hand, "Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Hello, yes." They shake hands.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog. Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch."

John looked surprised. "Thank you!" 

He looks round at Sherlock, clearing his throat smugly. The two must've had an argument earlier about his blog.

"And Mr Holmes the younger," he states, walking closer to Sherlock, 

"You look taller in your photographs."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and short friends."

He walks abruptly past John, forcing him to step back, and approaches his brother.

"Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work. Good morning."

He starts to walk out of the room but Mycroft steps onto the trailing edge of the sheet behind him. Sherlock's impetus carries him forward while pulling the sheet off his body. 

He stops and grabs at it before he's completely naked and tries to tug it back around himself, looking furious. I cough uneasily and Harry gives me a sympathetic look.

"This is a matter of national importance," Father growls, "Grow up."

With his back still turned to his brother, Sherlock speaks through gritted teeth. 

"Get off my sheet!"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just walk away."

"I'll let you."

"Boys, please," John butted in, looking absolutely horrified at the idea, "Not here. We have a lady present."

All the men turned to me and I internally groaned. I had no idea why I was here and now I'm stuck in between these two brothers. 

Also I found the situation funny, as I knew who the client was, but the great Sherlock Holmes didn't.  
Sherlock now was almost incandescent with rage. 

"Who. Is. My. Client?"

Father was going to explode. "Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake ..." He breaks off and glances at the equerry briefly, trying to get his anger under control before he turns back to his brother again, " ... put your clothes on!"

Sherlock closes his eyes furiously, then pulls in a sharp breath.

Some time later, we are all sitting down like a civilized group. Sherlock has dressed and is sitting on the sofa beside John. Father, Harry and I were all sitting on the opposite sofa. I start to pour the tea, but Father butts in, taking the teapot from me.

"I'll be mother."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell."

Father glowers at him, then puts down the teapot. I place a hand on his leg, sending a signal not to do anything embarrassing. 

The equerry looks at Sherlock. 

"My employer has a problem."

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature," Father states, "And in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why," Sherlock asks, "You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr Holmes?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Not, to date, anyone with a Navy."

"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust."

"You don't trust your own Secret Service?"

"Naturally not," I said giving a smirk, "They all spy on people for money."

John bites back a smile, realizing the joke behind the statement.

"I do think we have a timetable."  
Father nodded. "Yes, of course. Um ..."

He waves his hand for me to give him his briefcase and takes out a glossy photograph. Handing it to Sherlock, he looks at the picture of Irene Adler.

"What do you know about this woman?"

"Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention. She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?"

I sigh, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't catch on. At least not yet. 

"Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman."

John raises an eyebrow. "Professionally?"

"There are many names for what she does," Father states hesitantly, "She prefers 'dominatrix."

"Dominatrix." Sherlock muses over the word, rolling it around on his tongue.

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft says shortly, "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me".

Father smiles snidely at him. 

"How would you know?"

John glances over at me and so does Harry, who most likely was regretting letting me into the meeting in the first place. 

Giving Father a very long glance, John nodded over in my direction. Father, realizing what he was trying to convey, coughed. I raised an eyebrow at all of them.

"Really?"

Sherlock raises his head and stares at his brother. The two have a short contest of who could make the better I'm-going-to-kill-you face. No one said anything else on the matter, so I presumed that meant I would stay. 

Father continued solomley, but this time he chose his words more carefully.

"She provides - shall we say - recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it."

Father takes more photographs from his briefcase and hands them to Sherlock and one to me. Mine was obviously one that they had taken of her. 

She was standing outside her house, glancing over her shoulder. What was strange about it though, was that she was gazing right at at the camera. Her eyes were very calm and she had a great poker face. I believed though, that she had something to hide. It was all in her eyes. She was terrified of so many people that she always had some sort of 'protection' in case things went sour. That was the phone. 

I pulled the picture to right in front of my nose and I could see that her lips were pulled taunt. Something was off. Sherlock's pictures were all from her website.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs."

Harry gave a tight grin. "You're very quick, Mr Holmes."

"Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?"

"A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Glaring angrily at him, Sherlock puts the photographs down on the table. I place mine over top of his. 

Taking a sip out of the tea, I get a startling realization that this 'person' must be a woman.

"You can't tell us anything," John inquired.

Father sighed, knowing that this might be risky. "I can tell you it's a young person....a young female person.

John's eyes widen while Sherlock smirks. I also give a small grin, happy that my deduction was right.

"How many photographs?"

"A considerable number, apparently."

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

"Yes, they do."

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."

At this, Father pauses to phrase the statement correctly. "An imaginative range, we are assured."

Without looking round at him, Sherlock realizes that John is staring blankly at Mycroft with his teacup still half raised. I check and he is still in shock at all the information he's processing. 

"John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now." 

He snapped out of it and placed it on the table. 

Harry sighed and glanced over at Sherlock.

"Can you help us, Mr Holmes?"

"How?"

I groan out loud this time, getting glances from all the men. 

"Will you take the case? It's not that hard to understand."

"What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten.'"

He turns and reaches for his overcoat which is draped on the back of the sofa.

"She doesn't want anything." 

Father looks like he's going to need a nap later today.

Sherlock turns back towards us, a look of complete bewilderment on his face.

"She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour."

"Oh, a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

At the same time, both John and I reply to this comment. "Sherlock ..."

He takes no considerable notice to us. "Hmm." 

Instead he turns around and reaches for his coat again.

"Where is she?"

"Uh, in London currently," Father replies, 'She's staying..."

Not waiting for him to finish, Sherlock picks up his coat, stands and starts to walk away.

"Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

All five of us get to our feet. Harry asks, "Do you really think you'll have news by then?"

Sherlock turns back to him. "No, I think I'll have the photographs."

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think."

Sherlock looks at him sharply, apparently indignant that he should doubt him. He pauses and stares at Harry long and hard.

I can tell that he was deducing everything about this man and would pull the most embarrassing thing he could find.

Sherlock looks across to Mycroft. 

"I'll need some equipment, of course."

"Anything you require. I'll have it sent to-"

Sherlock interrupts his statement, turning to Harry. 

"Can I have a box of matches?"

"I'm sorry?"

I knew where Sherlock was going with this one and shook my head at him.

"Or your cigarette lighter. Either will do." He holds out his hand expectantly.

"I don't smoke."

"No, I know you don't, but your employer does."

After a pause during which John frowns in puzzlement, the equerry reaches into his pocket and takes out a lighter which he hands to Sherlock.

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes."

"I'm not the Commonwealth."

Taking the lighter and putting it into his trouser pocket, he turns away.

John glances over at Harry with an apologetic grin on his face. 

"And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you."

He follows after Sherlock as he strolls out of the room. The detective doesn't look back and shouts, "Laters!"

John throws an apologetic glance over his shoulder as they leave.


	16. Undercover

I give Father a long glance and he understands.

“Well, Harry. It was a pleasure seeing you again.”

We all said our adieus and I breathed a long sigh of relief.

Father and Harry talked some more before we parted ways. In the car, he started to text and then turned to me.

“What did you observe from the picture?”

I sighed. “Irene is a young woman who believes that knowledge is power. She has an extensive line of clients who come from around the globe. This woman is a mastermind at mind games and I have a feeling that Sherlock won’t be able to deduce her very well. Irene also has a knack for confronting people without actually doing it and reveals the worst about people.”

Father nodded in consideration about this statement.

“Do you have your sketchbook,” he asked, glancing down at his wallet.

I raised an eyebrow, not quite sure where this conversation was headed.

“Yes, but why would I need that?”

“You are going to go and see Ms. Adler and then draw her. That is your alias. Your main goal is to find those pictures. And to keep Sherlock from doing anything stupid.”

Stunned, I sat there for a few minutes in utter quite. I guess he didn't even trust Sherlock alone.

We pulled up to the front of her house and Father handed me a business card.

“In case she asks.”

I knew that there was no way of arguing my way out of this situation, so I just sighed and walked out.

Standing in front of Irene's house, I could tell someone was taking a picture of me, but I knew I had to keep up the act. The thing to remember with these people was to be one step ahead of them.

Ringing the doorbell, I waited on the front steps. It was a few minutes before the door opened and a woman appeared.

She had dark brown hair and was very skinny, but was definitely not Irene. She was most likely Adler’s maid.

“Can I help you,” she asked hesitantly.

“Um, I’m here to see Ms. Adler. I think I emailed earlier about the appointment.”

There was a long pause and then I was ushered in. The hall was large, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It felt sterile, very put together, as if they were waiting for someone very important to come in.

Footsteps on the stairway caught my attention and looking up, I see Irene coming down. She was wearing a very revealing robe, red lipstick and half-taken off nail polish.

“Kate,” the woman said smiling, “please tell me when we have a guest.”

Kate nodded once and backed away, leaving me and Irene alone, who turned and gave a large smile.

“So, what can I help you with?”

I held out my card and tried to steady my nerves. “I’m here to make a drawing of you. I guess my email to you got lost in the post.”

I could tell that Irene wasn’t expecting that answer, so there was a short pause and then she nodded.

Leading me into one of the main rooms, the yellow walls matched the tone of the house, causing me to wrinkle my nose.

“If you would excuse me,” Irene asked pleasantly, “I would like to get ready.”

Before I could respond and tell her that she looked perfect, she had already walked out of the room.

Glancing around, all I saw was a mirror and a pieces of furniture. The pictures had to be in this room, for it was too obvious if she left them in her room. Where though, was the bigger question. 

The doorbell rang and I heard a murmur of voices from the outside hall. A few seconds later, Sherlock came in, holding a handkerchief to his face.

We both exchanged surprised looks until he decided to sit down. There was an awkward silence and I could see a white dog collar around his neck, making my uncle look like a vicar. Hilarious.

“Hello. Sorry to hear that you’ve been hurt,” Irene came walking around the corner, “I don’t think Kate caught your name.”

Sherlock replied to this in a very posh voice, something that I will always bring up. “I’m so sorry. I’m ..."

We turn and look at Irene as she walks into view and stops at the doorway.

Sherlock’s voice fails him when he realises that, with the exception of high-heeled shoes, she is stark naked. His jaw drops a little and I held back a cough and snicker.

“Oh, it’s always hard to remember an alias when you’ve had a fright, isn’t it?”

Irene smiled a little as she walks into the room and stands directly in front of him, straddling his legs and half-kneeling on the sofa.

She then reaches forward and pulls the white dog collar from his shirt collar. I sit up a little more and hold a steady gaze, even if the situation was a little strange.

“There now – we’re both defrocked ... Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Miss Adler, I presume,” Sherlock replies in his usual voice.

Irene turns back to me and smiles down. “Is this a good outfit for you drawing?”

I nodded a little too fast and Irene looked satisfied. Gazing back down at Sherlock’s face she asked,

“Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?”

Narrowing her eyes, she lifts the dog collar to her mouth and bites down onto the edge of it.

As Sherlock stares up at her in confusion, John walks into the room carrying a bowl of water and a fabric napkin. His eyes are lowered to the bowl to avoid spilling its contents. I realize that this scene was going to get very awkward in just a few seconds.

“Right, this should do it.” He stops dead in the doorway as he lifts his eyes and sees the scene in front of him.

Irene looks round to him, the dog collar still in her teeth. John looks at her awkwardly, then down at the bowl before looking up again.

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

I laugh as Irene takes the collar from her teeth.

“Please, sit down,” she states, standing back from Sherlock, who fidgets uncomfortably on the sofa as she walks away, “Oh, if you’d like some tea I can call the maid.”

“I had some at the Palace,” he relies and I shake my head. 

“I know.” She sits down in a nearby armchair and crosses her legs, folding her arms gracefully to obscure the view of her chest.

I slowly take out my sketchbook and begin to sketch, knowing I need to keep of the alias. Irene smiles.

“So, you are,” she glances down at the card, still in her hand, “Ms. Jefferson? What do you do?”

I nod, realizing that she still didn’t know who I truly was. Or she was just dragging me along for the ride. I preferred the former. “Yes, I have a part time job as an artist and then I am, um, bartender.”

We all stare silently at each other for several seconds, weighing each other up. John looks at Irene and Sherlock awkwardly glances over at me a few times. Sherlock’s eyes finally fix on Irene while he attempts to make as many deductions about her as he can. I could tell that nothing was coming up for him.

Bewildered, he turns and looks at John and starts to analyse him. John frowns as Sherlock continues to gaze at him and raises an eyebrow at me. I shrug, as I can’t read my uncle’s mind. Relieved he hasn’t had a brain embolism, Sherlock slowly turns his head and looks at Irene again.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, he applies all his deductive reasoning as she smiles confidently back at him. He frowns. There was never any real clues there and I was surprised that he kept trying to deduce her.

“D’you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes?”

He quirks an eyebrow at her, unsure of what her answer will be.

“However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?”

Irene gave a small laugh. “No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.”


End file.
